


Off the Record

by ilija



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Dark Comedy, Face-Fucking, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 03:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7668199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilija/pseuds/ilija
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m a very important man. I’m surprised you didn’t know that when you saw my name on the roster.”</p><p>“‘Cuz I dunno who you are.”</p><p>(Or, a story in which Aizen, shady business executive extraordinaire, winds up hiring Gin as his sneaky underhanded lawyer.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off the Record

i.

Gin leaves a streak of blood on the bar counter top that doesn’t let up even after a good scrub. Not two minutes after leaving the dark stain, he’s outside on his knees vomiting against a dumpster with Nnoitra holding him by the torso.

“It’s not even midnight you fuckin’ parasite,” Gin grimaces and heaves once more, “and I gotta be out here with your nasty drunk ass.”

“You know, ginger is a better antiemetic than insults.”

“Shut the _fuck up_ , pretty boy.” _Thank you, Nnoitra_ , Gin inwardly praises. Finally, finally, after a couple more body wracking shudders and a couple of smacks on the back Nnoitra lets Gin go to lean on his elbows against the dumpster in order to catch his breath (Nnoitra yells a couple insults before leaving, Gin flips him off).

The other man across from him, his nose is bleeding and he’s lighting a cigarette. “This shirt is Armani.”

Gin spits.

“Do you expect to take responsibility for it? I did buy it in Italy after all. Not two weeks ago.”

“--shut up ‘fore I vomit on the shoes, too.”

“Also Italian,” he raises a foot to show off and Gin just could not care less now; he can’t imagine that he’d care while he’s sober. Like a man starved for air Gin places his palms flat against the grimy dumpster and hoists himself to his full height, unsteady but moving. “Should I call a cab?”

“No thanks, Jean Paul Gaulti-dick,” Gin slurs and limps out to the sidewalk, his phone sandwiched between his ear and his cheek bleeding onto the pavement.

ii.

“You need stitches. And a trip to the laundromat. And a serving of my foot up your ass,” Rangiku scolds, fussy at seeing Gin come downstairs with a swelling gash on his cheek and bloodied knuckles. His pants won’t survive the washing machine; no amount of picking or scrubbing will erase the garbage stains on his knees. “What did you do?”

“Ah, don’t smack me,” Gin smirks in anticipation of pain, “just had a little bit of rough housin’. You should see the other guy.”

 _Yeah, Giorgio Armani came ‘n beat the shit outta me_.

Rangiku bites her lower lip. “Well,” she says, addressing her hands, currently occupied with patting down a band-aid on one of Gin’s knuckles, “You’re still as stupid looking as ever, so I guess I can’t worry too much. But I’m still mad at you for doing this so buy me dinner this week.”

“Oi!” Gin shakes his hand away and clutches it protectively to his chest. “I’d rather ya cut my hand off.”

“And not takeout.”

“Ran, I’m seriously gonna be late, can ya blackmail me later?”

Exasperated, Rangiku throws up her hands and shoos him out. “Fine! Fine, go save the day one dying relationship at a time.” Amused, Gin peeks his head back into the kitchen and salutes, mocking.

Once on the metro, relief floods Gin into a forward slump and he scratches at his forehead. There’s a bit of dried blood there but no cuts, so he can only imagine it was Armani’s. Ugh, gross, the way he talked to Gin as if he was discussing the weather was off putting, especially since only three minutes prior the guy had Gin pinned to the bar top with one arm and was solidly whaling on Gin’s face with the other. Rubbing his face, Gin decidedly accepts that he’s going to look like he got sucked into a wood chipper and gets off at his stop.

Izuru, the only other person to work at the office space Gin rents, turns almost transparent when he sees his boss. “What?”

“Gin-san, what happened to you?”

“Ate some bees.” The smirk on his face doesn’t waver and Izuru looks like he would rather die than ask any more questions. “Nah, kiddin’. Got into a fight, but I’m still here so I’m fine. What’s on my schedule today?”

Flustered, Izuru scrambles for the planner. “Ah, at nine is a pretty long meeting with an Aizen Sousuke and then at noon there’s a thirty minute break. But after that it’s pretty quiet.” Gin had already resigned himself to not eating so he could take Rangiku out for an apology drink, so he shrugs and turns towards his office.

“Don’t worry about that. Keep my noon open. But don’t be surprised if ya find me nappin’ with an ice bag pillow.”

Gin doesn’t miss Izuru burying his face in his hands after he shuts the door. God, his jaw hurt. He draws the blinds before dropping like lead into his chair, hoisting his feet onto the desk. He really doesn’t want to talk to this Aizen, probably some balding guy in his fifties with a kid or two who hasn’t brushed his teeth in five days. There should be, Gin thinks, a warning for this job: Do not apply unless ya can’t smell. Absentmindedly, he rubs at his own nose, the iron smell of blood still sharp in his nostrils.

He’s in the middle of reviewing a case from the day before when a few taps sound against his door. Without looking up, Gin lifts a hand and waves whoever it is in. The sooner the better to get this over with. “Come in, have a seat, I’m just a second.”

The door opens but doesn’t shut. Gin looks up and for a brief second his eyes open wide at the unmoving figure at the door. It’s Armani. It’s Aizen, dressed in Armani with a Montblanc briefcase, and-- “I’m here for the nine o’clock.”

Gin’s lips are suddenly too dry and he doesn’t move to speak lest they crumble off of his face. When he does finally find his voice, he can hear it bounce across the hallway: “ _You_!” Aizen doesn’t even blink when Gin yells, shutting the door calmly while Gin rises and points an accusatory finger.

“I’m not takin’ your case, asshole.”

“We should both sit down,” Aizen gestures to both of them with one large hand. They’re both the same height, even though Aizen is all solid where Gin is tawny, and it makes Gin even more pissed that he can’t seem to look down on him.

“I’m runnin’ the show here, so either gimme a reason to accept your case or toss it and you out.”

“Who is going to be tossing who again?” Something sharp flashes in Aizen’s eye and Gin’s arms throb remembering how Aizen had picked him up and tossed him into the side alley in an almost textbook dropkick. Wounded slightly but not defeated, Gin drops back down in his seat, squaring his shoulders and leaning over his desk. “Thank you,” Aizen responds, snide. Gin can see the curl of a grin on Aizen’s lips.

“Aizen-san. Do what do I owe the honor of helping you with today, not that I quite want to--”

“But?”

“You already paid the first meeting fee. So whaddaya got.” Gin doesn’t jump when Aizen drops his briefcase flat on the desk.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You just dropped a third of my weekly salary on my desk there.”

“An excellent eye,” Aizen praises and flips open the case. There are five files filled to the brim each labeled with a different year. “These are my wife and I’s financial records.” Beside him, Gin clicks on his phone and pulls up the voice recorder. At Aizen’s glare, Gin explains,”S’just for record keepin’. Go on.”

“Fine enough. These are my wife and I’s financial records from the past five years. There was a prenuptial signed whenever we got married, and now I’m having to work a case against her to divvy out the assets.”

“Do you both really buy this much?” Gin examines the contents of the files briefly.

“No. I just like to keep two copies of each for backup.” Gin thinks he might fucking die if he has to see another number.

“Didja already set a court date?”

“Yes, it’s in four months. Plenty of time, I think.” Aizen’s smile is as slick as gun oil. It makes Gin’s stomach lurch but he reaches for the files anyway, narrowly avoiding having his fingers cleaved off when Aizen slams the briefcase shut. “Not so fast, Gin-san. I myself would like to make an addendum to the contract.”

“Dunno if I can do _that,_ Aizen-san,” Gin leers at Aizen, intrigued at his notion and irritated at his highbrow way of doing and saying everything, “but I can listen.”

“I’m a very important man. I’m surprised you didn’t know that when you saw my name on the roster.”

“‘Cuz I dunno who you are.”

Aizen taps his briefcase. “Aizen Sousuke. I do have quite a hand in this city’s shipyard, you know. Very Trans-Atlantic.”

“I try not to go that way into town much.” Now Aizen’s smirk rivals Gin’s and Gin knows Aizen is thoroughly enjoying this game.

“Please expect to find yourself there more often.”

“I’m not takin’ this case. Don’t you gotta big greasy guy already planned for stuff like this?” Gin shakes out his hair, rolls his stiff muscles, but doesn’t falter for a second.

That is until Aizen rumbles, “Please lift the rightmost folder.” One eyebrow cocked and his body steeled, Gin slides his fingers under the files after Aizen lifts open the case again. If a bomb goes off in his office, that’s that. He’ll apologize to Rangiku by haunting her.

His finger grazes across cash. Specifically, a stack of bank notes. One hundred thousand yen at his fingertips, and Gin has to tamp down his past instincts from grabbing the cash and running. A bead of sweat, cold, a product adrenaline and excitement, runs down his back as he looks up at Aizen from under his eyebrows. “Go on.”

Pleased, Aizen nods at the briefcase. “Go on, lift up the other four.” The same case for each of them--in Aizen’s briefcase alone there’s enough to pay Gin’s office and home rent for the month. He thinks he might either throw up or do something stupid like try to grab the suitcase and run, but he reins himself in. Sitting back in his seat he folds his hands in his lap, knuckles white and tendons evident. “Alright, what’s the catch here, Aizen-san?”

“A catch?”

“Ain’t no way you came here,” Gin gestures to the stained ceiling and off yellow walls, “with that much money without there bein’ some sort of catch. What do I gotta do, kill a guy?” At that, Aizen actually chuckles. “Aizen-san.”

“No catch, Gin, I just think this illustrates my point.” Aizen reaches into the case and pulls out one stack of a hundred thousand, his hand almost large enough to eclipse the whole thing, and places it atop Gin’s desk calendar. “I’m a very important man, it wouldn’t do me well to lose such a personal case.”

 _Oh, so that’s how it is_.

“All I ask is that you win this case for me at your utmost capacity. If you do, this,” Aizen taps the stack of notes, “is yours today. Then we also have the matters of commission, and anything else I think is proper payment for your effort and work. That is my addendum.”

A sinister smile worms across Gin’s face, full of teeth and crooked. “What, you gotta Ferrari for me out there as a backup plan?” Aizen doesn’t even flinch and Gin, for the first time in ages, his blood runs cold. It seems so straightforward, so simple: an open and shut divorce case, but in winning that he can earn enough to actually eat.

“So, what do you say, G--” Aizen clamps his mouth shut when Gin nicks the stack of bills from Aizen’s hold and starts flipping through them, counting. “Oh, have you done this before?” Aizen sounds pleased and shuts the case closed after placing the files on Gin’s desk. In response, he shrugs.

“It’s called not bein’ stupid,” Gin flips through the notes. 98, 99, “A hundred thousand,” Gin fans himself with the stack. “So there ain’t no playin’ around here, huh Aizen-san?”

“Well, you aren’t a stupid man, Gin.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Can I trust you to have all of this sorted through by Friday?”

“I’ve read more for less just to get here.”

“An excellent answer,” Aizen sits up straight, his larger form still overshadowing Gin much to his chagrin, and pulls out a pen from his pocket, engraved. “I’m willing to review what files I and my wife have turned in so far if you have the time.”

“Mm, so the upcoming court date is--”

“Just a prelim. We’re both very busy people, so I wanted to give us both time.”

“But you’re gonna win anyway.”

Something in Aizen’s gaze has Gin’s legs crossing and palms sweating. “That’s the idea.”

Gin has always been a fast learner.

At lunch he excuses himself, waving off the phone Izuru hands toward him and his pocket heavy with cash. Once out of the building he sniffs in the cold air and phones Rangiku.

“Hey, Thai or Korean tonight? My treat.”

iii.

Aizen calls Gin before he even sits down at work and invites him to his own office later that morning. It’s lucky that Gin already has a metro card because Aizen’s office is a good walk halfway across the city and he’s wearing his good shoes.

Once inside the front lobby they start to feel a little less nice. Where Gin’s office is elementary school grade tile, Aizen’s building is marble. A little thrill runs up his spine whenever his soles echo across the room.

“Hiya, here to see Aizen-san at eleven,” Gin greets and the secretary visibly wilts underneath his serpent’s smile.

“Oh, he--” she flips through the planner, then through her computer. “Yes, okay, just take this elevator up to the third floor. His office is in the very far back.

“Much obliged.” Gin bows and takes said elevator, punching in the three and waiting patiently as it fills up. One man quirks an eyebrow at Gin’s simple choice of wear, slacks and a button down with an (unbeknownst to Gin) unmatching tie, and Gin surreptitiously gives him a whack to the shin with his briefcase.

The man is still rubbing his shin whenever they reach the third floor but he doesn’t say a word.

The secretary completely under exaggerated Aizen’s office. It’s not in the back of the room--it _is_ the back of the whole room, all frosted glass and a nice fern in front of the doors. Gin wants to kick it over just to make a point and decides that he’s too poor to risk it.

“Aizen-san, I’m coming in,” Gin raps at the glass. Inside, Aizen sits at his desk with one hand on his laptop and another sandwiching his phone between his ear and shoulder. He nods toward Gin without looking up.

“Come on in, Gin, I’ll be with you in a second.” There’s a couch in front of Aizen’s desk, not a chair. Already annoyed with having being addressed without an honorific, Gin stands where he is with a frown on his face, hand sweating on the handle of the briefcase. Aizen just… _talks_ for what seems like an hour (but was only really five minutes) and Gin starts to feel an itch on his back. “Are you not going to sit?” Aizen asks, hanging up the phone.

“That’s a couch. You’re not my shrink.”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?” Aizen leans forward on one elbow, propping his chin up, and Gin does not like the way Aizen leers at him.

“Yeah, kinda. Listen, were you expectin’ someone important? On the phone-- I can come back in thirty minutes, or somethin’.”

“I was expecting someone important; you’re here, aren’t you?”

Gin’s eye twitches. “Don’t give me backhanded compliments, it’s weird.”

Aizen points to the couch, “Please sit.”

Muttering something about Aizen being a nagging wife, Gin lowers himself down onto the couch and it’s already way too comfortable to be just for office use. Having nothing but skin and bones as a shield between box spring and mattress has made bed and couch shopping hell so Gin _knows_ a good piece of furniture when he sees it.

“Do you like it? I got it as a present.”

“Some friends, givin’ ya a couch.” Gin decides he really wants to steal the couch somehow. He blames it on his nerves and clears his throat. “Anyhow, you’re gonna love this, I’ve looked through the most recent folder last night and--”

“Why would you not read it from oldest to newest?”

“You already got the most recent stuff remembered ‘cuz it’s fresh. It’s the old stuff they’ll try to trick you with.”

 _How very tactical_. Aizen’s mouth waters a bit and Gin slides forward a stapled copy of a doctor’s records, pulled from his briefcase. “Look at that abbreviation there and tell me what you think that means.”

Pulling a pair of glasses from his pocket, using them as a magnifying glass, Aizen mouths the words as he reads them on the paper.

“She ain’t got the clap.”

“Did you really just hand me this to tell me that?” If looks could kill, Gin would be fried and served on a platter. His smile doesn’t waver, having faced men double Aizen in width and half in intelligence before, so he takes the paper back before Aizen crumples it. Good thing for those extra copies.

“Relax, Aizen-san, I’m only half kiddin’. Yeah, it’s that, but that’s just a routine check that they do at the gyneco--”

“How do you know what the abbreviations mean?” Aizen quirks an eyebrow. Gin, incredulous, replies, “My best friend is a girl.”

“Oh, how interesting. Why doesn’t she take you out?”

“What? That’s not the point of this conversation, Aizen-san.”

“So what does the criteria mean?”

“Well, like I said, she ain’t got the clap, but she ain’t carryin’ around extra weight if y’know what I mean,” Gin shrugs.

For a moment Aizen is quiet, and Gin thinks maybe he should run for his life or try to pat Aizen on the back. Gin has known the man for barely six hours and knows a quiet Aizen means a bad time; but suddenly, he just smiles.

“That’s great news.”

“Huh? Uh, Aizen-san, ain’t you the type of guy to want kids for heirs,” Gin waves the paper around, motioning to the whole room, “for all this after you kick the bucket?”

“Do I come off as that type of man?” Aizen folds his hands under his chin and a knuckle pops, loudly. Gin crosses his legs, rolls his shirtsleeves up, and leans forward to face Aizen.

“Yeah, you’re a rich bribin’ bastard.”

“You’re a poor failing lawyer with pants that make him look like he spent the evening in the local public gas station. What’s your point?”

“I don’t gotta sit here and listen to Tony Soprano’s yakuza cousin preach about fashion if I don’t want to, I can leave ya to lose this case on your own.”

“You won’t do anything because there specifically is a dress code for a suit and a tie that’s over eleven thousand yen and I’m very close to the human resources department,” Aizen’s finger hovers over the intercom button on his desk phone. Gin, defeated at the prospect of losing an all too well-paying case, glares until Aizen takes his hand away from the phone. “Thank you.”

“A pleasure,” Gin sniffs. “So, whaddaya think happened here? How long have ya been separated?”

“About six months? Seven months next week.”

“This record was from four months ago.”

“Can a currently legally married man not have sex with his own wife?”

“You--” Gin falls back against against the couch and, smirk still in place, actually laughs once, “air out more of that laundry I guess, Aizen-san.”

“If I judge them to help me win this case, I will share the details of my private life.”

“Save that for _the_ _judge_ , okay?” Gin feels unnecessarily hot behind the collar but flips over another page in the packet. “What I was trying to insinuate was, do you think she’s havin’ an affair? At all?”

“Hinamori-kun is completely devoted to me.” Somehow, the way Aizen lays it down as cold hard fact without an intonation makes Gin’s knuckles turn white against the paper.

“So she would never go out and suck another corporate executive’s dick?”

“No, and now the question remains, would you?”

Gin drops the paper. “Mind runnin’ that by me one more time?”

“Would you ever entertain the idea of sucking another corporate executive’s dick? More specifically mine, but I also wouldn’t mind watching either.”

Gin immediately scrubs at his face, scrunching his eyes shut even tighter, though he knows Aizen can see the flushed tips of his ears and his red knuckles, damn his skin for being so unnaturally fair. “You’re propositionin’ me.”

“You didn’t graduate law school for stupidity.”

“I got an insult fee startin’ now and it’s an extra hundred fifty thousand.”

“Make it an even hundred seventy-five.” Aizen scoots back from his desk and unbuckles his belt, letting his legs fall open in a way that only he can make look graceful. The hard shape under Aizen’s zipper makes a cold sweat break out on Gin’s forehead. “What’ll your choice be, Gin?”

Gin’s knees are already dirty and he’s semi-hard anyway, and if he wants to blow his money so badly on calling Gin names then that’s his bank’s problem, so Gin, slowly and on legs unsure of their consistency, makes his way around behind the desk and lowers himself to his knees in front of Aizen. He’s infuriating and casual, leaning back on one elbow and drumming his fingertips on the desk despite his cock twitching when Gin runs a flat palm over it; it’s now a personal challenge to Gin to get Aizen to squirm.

The length of it is thick and warm once it’s in Gin’s hands, the band of his briefs tucked underneath and out of the way, and Gin immediately dives down to drag his tongue against the underside. He lets Aizen think that he missed the little hitch in his breath. Gin’s hair hangs across his eyes like a curtain, obscuring his face from Aizen’s view as he sucks the head in and starts working a pace down to the root. Gin lets his tongue play along all the while, exploring the texture of the skin and Aizen murmurs, “You’re a bit eager for having just started. Are you sure that all of your slacks aren’t as dirty on the knees as these?” He nudges at Gin’s knee with the toe of his Prindos. In retaliation, Gin starts to close his teeth around Aizen’s cock.

He only gets as far as denting the skin before Aizen’s hands close over his head, practically engulfing it in the size, and yanks him down by the hair until Gin’s lips touch the skin of Aizen’s stomach. Aizen jams one foot against the desk and the other against the floor. Gin’s throat, the slick heat of Gin’s mouth, seizes up around him and he gags once before Aizen pulls him back, the stretch of his dick already hurting Gin’s jaw. He barely gets a chance to cough before Aizen is shoving him back down with both hands and thrusting shallowly into Gin’s throat.

His nose runs and spit starts making a trail down his sweaty face as he pounds uselessly on Aizen’s chest with one fist, his other hand holding onto the desk for dear life as Aizen fucks his swollen and bruised face. Maybe he’ll be a quick shot, Gin hopes and tries to hollow out his cheeks as best as he can and suck on every upstroke.

Aizen mercifully fucks Gin’s mouth for only another ten strokes, but Gin has a daunting suspicion that he’s able to release on command. _Explains why he chose this as the perfect opportunity_ , Gin laments and swallows as best as he can.

The only thing giving away the fact that Aizen had just cum down his lawyer’s throat was the light beading of sweat across his hairline and his fingers still curled in Gin’s hair. Only after the throbbing of his dick has abated does he let Gin go; he immediately gasps for air, coughing and spitting once onto the marble. There’s blood when he wipes his nose and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to clean that,” Aizen reprimands.

“So leave it... for your cleanin’ crew,” Gin croaks and rubs his throat, “You did a number on me there. You really are a bastard.”

“You’re a big boy, you’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“You ain’t payin’ me to suck you off,” Gin readjusts himself, his cock straining against his underwear and he really hopes Aizen doesn’t make him do something horrific about that problem.

“I’ll pay two hundred total for those troubles.”

“You’ll make a great politician someday. We gonna continue talkin’ about your case now?”

“Only after you take care of that.” Aizen points at Gin’s erection; Gin, not knowing what to do with his hands, rises to his feet instead.

“No way, Aizen-san, it’s nearin’ lunch time and I’m not havin’ your secretary bring in lunch just to see my bare ass.” He narrowly misses the magazine Aizen tosses at him. It’s a porn magazine. The cover girl’s breasts seem to stare at Gin. “So you just keep porn lyin’ around? Hell of a work strategy.” Gin pinches it between two fingers like he would a crusty sock.

“I have many secrets to my success. My bathroom is down that way,” Aizen waves Gin off. “I hope you like blondes.”

Gin huffs, “No, I like brunettes,” and slams the door. He hopes Aizen trips on his own cum when he leaves.

iv.

As promised, Gin reads all of the files by that Friday. He never wants to see another string of numbers or else he thinks he might die, as predicted. That with the combo of only having gotten three hours of sleep that night makes him feel a bit more frazzled than usual. This morning he peeled off a band aid too fast and wound up reopening another scab, a task that angered him so much he wound up kicking the box fan. His yawn echoes in the metro tunnel as he walks out to his office.

Already parked at the curb is Aizen himself, a lit cigarette hanging between his lips and still only in a suit in the late January chill. “What’re you doin’ here Aizen-san, the meetin’ ain’t ‘til eleven.” He’s too tired to even feign interest.

“Good morning Gin, bold or menthol?” Aizen pulls a silver cigarette case out of his breast pocket and that gesture in itself, while Gin has nothing but crumpled cellophane and two hundred yen in his own jacket, makes Gin want to punch the smug look off his face.

To Aizen, it just looks like Gin zones out for a moment. He waves the case. “Gin.” In a snap Gin comes to and shakes his head, not in refusal but to center himself.

“Ah, bold, menthol gives me headaches,” Aizen passes him a stick and Gin, with fingers so frozen that he can barely hold the lighter, struggles to block the wind from putting out his light. “Damnit-- s’too cold.”

He expects Aizen to at least ignore him, maybe offer his light at most, but he does the absolute last thing Gin thinks of: Aizen closes his hands around Gin’s, the leather buttery and faintly warm from Aizen’s palms, and holds them still. Gin flicks the flint and it cuts on, the flame only slightly wavering now.

“You’re very interesting Aizen-san,” Gin breathes a large puff of smoke and Aizen still hasn’t let go. “I’m good now, y’know.”

“Don’t care. I thought we’d have a little casual time before our meeting. I think we’re both very busy men.”

Gin coughs, “Me suckin’ you off wasn’t casual?”

“Not casual enough. Maybe if I had a bed, or even just against this car,” Aizen gestures with his head to the car and ash falls away from Gin’s cigarette.

“I don’t imagine us having our dicks amputated from frostbite is sexy at all.”

“Have you really never tried a quick fuck outside in the snow? It’s thrilling. It gives you the same amount of workout as you would get during a decent jog. And the heat keeps you warm as well.”

“Now that’s a bold-faced lie.” Gin tries to pull his hands away again to no avail. “Seriously, I’m not droppin’ my pants.”

“Fair enough.” Aizen drops his hands and it’s cold enough to make Gin almost want them back. Almost. “I have no intention of causing you harm anyway.”

“No, you wanna fuck me to death sometimes,” Gin blows smoke towards Aizen, who doesn’t even blink. The ensuing silence and the steady look Aizen gives Gin makes his stomach lurch in a not entirely unpleasant way. He silently offers up a prayer to every god existing that he chose to wear a long jacket today.

“You know, you have such pale features, I don’t understand why you insist on dressing on dressing in such bland colors.” Gin flips his cigarette out into the snow and heads up the stairs, coat billowing out behind him.

“S’a bit too cold for me to be talkin’ out here now. Come on.”

Once inside Gin starts a pot of coffee and continues talking to Aizen in the hallway. “I dunno why you’re so worried about how or why I wear what I wear.”

“You as my lawyer are my representative and I wouldn’t bury my cat in what you’re wearing right now. Especially your ties,” Aizen points at Gin with such force that he flinches.

“It was forty bucks, Aizen-san.”

“That’s a worse investment than I expected. Do you really not know that you look better in dark cool colors?”

“That insult fee is still in place.”

“I’ll have it deposited by tomorrow if we can also have lunch today while discussing this case.” Aizen has no intention of discussing the case and Gin knows it. So he accepts.

Once the coffee is poured Gin slides in behind his desk and drops a clipped bundle of papers on the desk. “Alright, so I had a look through here, highlighting routin’ numbers, and I think I found a couple things.” Aizen’s eyes gleam. “For one, she visits the spa every month.”

“As do I.” Aizen is too perfect up close. Gin can’t see a single pore on Aizen’s face and even the stray lock of hair over his nose looks staged. He’s not surprised by the admission.

“And both your hotel records match up, though she visits a lot more bars than you.”

“She comes from modest means of entertainment. I think it’s very sweet,” Aizen smiles behind the rim of his Styrofoam cup and the space above Gin’s nose wrinkles. “Go on.”

“Well, not a lot more to say though she does drop a good could hundred thousand about once a month.” Aizen must think he’s fast but Gin catches the way the light in his eye clouds over.

“Any chance you know where it was wired to?”

Gin sighs. “That’s where I fall short--I’m pretty good at matchin’ numbers to names but I couldn’t find a link to any corporation or charity defunct or not.”

“Why not leave it to your assistant?”

“Kira’s just my front desk. All he does watch videos anyway.”

“I mean, a financial assistant.”

“You think money grows on trees? I can’t afford none of that. I am the financial assistant. I did all _this_ ,” Gin taps the files on his desk,” myself.” Sacrificing sleep for it, but whatever, he was getting paid.

Aizen actually seems-- amused? “That’s very admirable, the lengths you’ll go to for a result.”

“You don’t seem to really think that,” he shuffles the papers in his hands, “so more than likely I’ll hit up my buddy at the bank today--” In a move that Gin actually misses when he blinks Aizen is suddenly two inches in front of him, leaning over the desk and half of his coffee now on Gin’s tie. Spilled with a purpose, if Gin’s assumption of Aizen’s smug look is correct.

The bastard. Before Gin can raise a fist to punch him Aizen wraps the length of the tie around his hand in two quick flicks of his wrist, burning hot coffee and all, and pulls Gin so close he can smell his hair product and smoke. “Your hand burnin’ yet?” Gin gives a crooked smile despite his heart pounding in his throat. Aizen watches his pulse as one would an experiment and Gin feels naked already.

“I can do this for quite a while.”

“What’d your wife think?”

Aizen’s eyes narrow into slits. “Ex-wife.”

“You ain’t divorced yet,” Gin’s nostrils flare and his smirk widens almost devilishly when Aizen leans in to bite Gin’s lower lip, right on the cut he gave him at the bar. He tongues the blood away, pulling back with a wet kiss before only touching their lips together.

“For all conveniences and purposes legally she is my wife; however, I have zero reason to doubt that I’ll lose this case against Hinamori-kun unless I receive _some_ form of interference. That is why I’ve told you multiple times that you’re not stupid, but you make some very stupid comments sometimes, Gin. Do you catch what I mean here?”

Gin licks away blood before Aizen can, touching the tip of his tongue to Aizen’s lower lip, “How am I expected to stop when you give me such good reactions, Aizen-san?”

“Don’t answer my question with another question, I’ll make you eat those words one day,” Aizen trails the flat of his tongue up the sharp slope of Gin’s chin, shoving it in between Gin’s lips and pulling him forward by the tie without warning. Gin’s already chipped tooth hurts and he can feel the small trickle of blood from his lip trailing and running down both of their faces.

He tries to fight back, or at least match the other; Aizen knows what he’s doing, as much as Gin is loath to admit, and the constricting hand around his tie has him in no position to resist. So he lets Aizen take what he gives, matching him bite for bite, tilting his head when Aizen sucks his tongue into his mouth.

Without warning Aizen spits into his mouth and silences Gin with his tongue until he swallows. Once released, the tie goes slack and Gin falls back against his chair, face and ears red but still focusing on his breath. Aizen, the bastard, barely looks shaken save for the burning red skin on his hand. “Y’might wanna go run that under cold water.”

“You don’t really seem to care.”

“I don’t. Just a suggestion.”

“Where shall we go during lunch?”

Gin readjusts his tie, grimacing at the nasty coffee stain on it. “Gettin’ me a tie.”

“Fine. And for actual lunch?”

“I ain’t lettin’ you buy me a tie even if I was goin’ to the last party on Earth,” Gin quirks an eyebrow when Aizen sighs.

“You’re making it very hard to get along with you.”

“You’re just mad ‘cuz you got a snake in your pants and it ain’t me,” Gin’s smile turns sardonic and he basks in the heat burning in Aizen’s eyes.

“I can easily change your mind, like I have,” he pretends to think, “twice now.” Gin doesn’t rebuke him, rightfully so if the hard length underneath his zipper says anything about Gin’s true responses, so he declares himself the victor of this battle.

“Then whaddaya say we cut the whole meetin’ at one? I’m tired from lookin’ over these all night and I’d rather send these to my friend sooner rather than later.”

“A friend you can trust, I assume.”

“Does it look like I keep snitches at my beck and call?” Gin’s exhaustion coupled with Aizen and with this type of chatter manifests itself into a sigh that leaves him more slumped than straight. “Aizen-san, ya got my word on it. Throwin’ out this case would be bad for you but worse for me, so I’m gonna see through it ‘til the end.” _If not for you then for the money_.

Gin knows Aizen is satisfied with that answer when he straighten and folds his hands in his lap, the pleasant demeanor back on his face. “Then we’ll work together until one.”

After the day is done, Gin takes the metro to Rangiku’s apartment. She still lives near their university campus, but more often than not one will wind up at the other’s place, a habit formed from their time as children together. He likes her apartment more anyway; she has a couch _and_ a chair in her living room.

“Ran,” Gin yawns and drops his briefcase, “Comin’ in.”

“Gin, it’s three in the afternoon, if you’re playing hooky I’m going to clobber you. I filed my nails today too.” Gin groans and falls over the back of her couch, sitting upside down with his head hanging off the cushion and his legs draped over the back.

“Y’know, I was gonna be nice and offer to order in but I think I’ll just take a nap instead.”

Taking his threat seriously she pitches her voice up to a falsetto, “How was your day at work, honey?” and winks at Gin. “I want something with salami.”

“Horrifyin’, I can’t wait for this commission check to be in my mailbox,” Gin flexes with all the grace of a sleepy cat, “It’s gonna be good, but four months of this…”

“Oh no, you got another one of those rich people cases, didn’t you?” She sticks her lower lip out and worries at her fingernails.

“Yeah, just this one’s really,” he scratches at a dried flake of blood under his lip, “he’s bizarre.”

“Um, he’s not 'going to your apartment in the middle of the day' bizarre, I hope.”

“Nah, he’s too far up his own ass to even begin entertainin’ the idea of comin’ to my part of town,” Gin pulls out his phone, “rich bastard.” Lo and behold there’s an e-mail from the man himself with his own personal business email, thanking Gin for his work, and Gin almost throws his phone. “I’m getting sandwiches.”

Rangiku drags out the twelve pack she consistently keeps buying and finishes half the pack before the delivery man even rings the doorbell (Gin complains the whole time he sends out emails to the bank, to which she replies, loudly enough for even the delivery man to hear, that if he doesn’t want to be beaten so easily then maybe he should put up or shut up).

“N-nice tie,” the poor stranger says from behind his helmet and Gin almost shoves the money in his mouth.

v.

Gin knows the tie is dead and gone when he hears threads snapping as he cries out, “Aizen-san!” and claws at the blanket for dear life.

 _Fifteen thousand down the drain_.

At least it wasn’t _his_ fifteen thousand.

His orgasm crawls sharp and rolling like waves on rocks up his spine, all hard bone and sinew tensing each time a new wave hits. It feels like forever when he comes to, his elbows trembling violently so he lets himself fall onto his side, narrowly avoiding his own mess. Not that it’s his bed anyway, but somehow he has reservations about leaving his semen on his client’s bedsheets.

Aizen leans down to run his tongue against the sweaty hairline of Gin’s nape, the only warning given before he pulls back to sit up straight, holding Gin down by the hips and resuming his unrelenting, grinding pace even as Gin shouts.

“Aiz--”

Gin swallows his words and a moan when Aizen lies atop Gin and rolls his hips in deep and steady thrusts, fucking Gin all the while he talks. “I haven’t finished yet, Gin. Bear with it.” Easy for him to say when he’s not split open on someone’s dick and dribbling cum everywhere. Gin’s toes dig for purchase in the sheets as his back bows, trying desperately to push back flush against Aizen’s thrusts and take him to the root.

“Aizen-san, ah!” Aizen grabs and pulls Gin back by the hair, silver strands wrapped like a spool around the thick fingers.

“Won’t you call me Sousuke this time?” Gin’s answering shudder makes him clench around Aizen’s dick, drawing a low groan from somewhere deep in his chest. One arm wrapped around Gin’s chest, the other still buried in his hair, Aizen worries at Gin’s ear and jaw with his teeth. “No honorifics.”

It’s what Aizen does--sets his own boundaries without regards for others already in place, and people follow behind or let him pass through. Gin still has enough trouble calling him anything but Aizen-san, but now he breathes, “Sousuke,” and tenses against the tie wound tight around his wrists as Aizen huffs in his ear, a chuckle floating on a breath.

“Again, louder.”

“Already too lou--” Gin’s sentence is wrenched from his throat in a sharp cry when Aizen jerks his head to the side to bite at the slope of his shoulder, thin skin yielding to the fine edge of Aizen’s teeth. “ _S_ _ousuke_!”

Aizen pulls away, his breath coming in deeper, shuddering inhales and Gin knows he’s close, the both of them; dizzy with overstimulation, reaches forward in his haze to brace his palms flat against the wall and murmur raggedly, “Sousuke, _Sousuke_ ,” as Aizen grinds against his prostate, sending Gin into another breathless orgasm that has his nails biting against the drywall and his ass spasming around Aizen’s cock hard enough to draw him over the edge as well. He doesn’t make a sound but he can barely catch his breath, still supporting himself on bound hands against the wall, and the absent minded brushing of Aizen’s lips and tongue down his bony shoulder isn’t unpleasant in the afterglow.

“…Heavy.” Gin pants.

“Mm.” Aizen replies noncommittally and doesn’t move. Gin thinks his ribs might snap if he doesn’t get some air. Letting his body fall limp, he tries to squirm out from under Aizen but instead receives a half-hearted tug on his hair. “Be still, it’s annoying.”

“I’m suffocatin’ under here,” Gin continues to struggle and, with a roll of his eyes, Aizen lets him roll away. Wrists still bound Gin ruffles his hair and makes his way straight to the toilet, lifting the lid up and sitting. _Can’t even enjoy myself after and it’s all this guy’s fault_ , Gin groans at the stickiness on his ass and between his legs.

“Gin, I’ve been thinking something.”

“Ah? Go ahead ‘n shoot, don’t expect me to answer yet though,” he leans forward to bury his face into his arms. The split threads from the tie tickle his forehead.

“You don’t use your voice recorder much after that first meeting.”

“Nah, it looks like it but I usually have it set a couple minutes before—“ he winces as another line of cum makes its way down his ass, “—cuz sometimes I mumble reminders at the beginning.”

“Interesting,” Aizen purrs, shuffling around on the sheets. “Do you mean to say there’s a chance that you’ve recording one of our—“

“No, Aizen-san, I didn’t just happen to record you and I yesterday,” Gin interjects and hangs his head lower. Just like him to turn from sexy to cold to mysterious to a complete idiot in the span of two minutes. Gin is constantly on his toes around Aizen. “It wasn’t during meetin’ times.”

Yesterday Gin had responded to Aizen’s email, which turned out to be an invitation to coffee before Aizen boarded a day train out of the prefecture for a conference, which actually turned into Aizen shoving his hand down Gin’s pants inside a station bathroom stall while Gin held both of their full takeaway coffee cups. Before he stepped on the train, Aizen had leaned in and whispered that he really liked the echo and Gin had to tighten his whole body before he threw Aizen out onto the train tracks and wound up a name brand stain.

“Gin?”

“Yeah?” Damn, he was still tied up. “Hey, come untie this.”

When Aizen steps in he’s clothed, a simple robe, and he kneels down in front of Gin’s hunkered form and slips his finger into the knot.

“Thank ya.”

“Don’t mention it. Do you ever do vocal recordings of transcripts?”

“Only sometimes. Don’t really have the need to do it unless it’s for another case usually.”

“Have you seen the packet of my ex-wife and I’s transcripts from the hearing?”

“Yeah, but it’s pretty cut ‘n dry so I don’t remember a lot.” Aizen hoists himself to his feet, then helping Gin, who starts cleaning himself with a washrag. “Ugh, feels like I’m wipin’ my ass with my college tuition.”

Aizen chooses to ignore that. “We have a meeting with her and her own lawyer on Wednesday. Would you care to review it sometime this week?”

The lump of suspicious lodges tidily in Gin’s throat and he draws his eyebrows together. He’s missing something here. “…Monday at one?”

“One o’clock is perfect. You’ve missed a spot on your chest.” Aizen points to a spot of cum on Gin’s pectoral and he scrubs at it harder than necessary.

\--

He arrives at 12:59 without so much as a knock right as Gin swallows a too hard chunk of pita chip. His soul ascending, Gin waves at Aizen. “Aizen-san,” he chokes, trying to clear his throat, his hand shaking nervously. It feels like he swallowed glass, he hates Rangiku’s new diet plan so much.

Without a word Aizen lightly lays a file in front of Gin, right by his sweating can of Coke. “This is the transcript from our hearing. I would like it if you could keep it on vocal file.” Aizen gestures to the phone near the soda.

“Uh, huh, sure, whatever ya say Aizen-san,” Gin flutters his fingers and slides his phone over to start the recording. “Uh,” Shit, “Today is—Monday, the sixteenth of January. Tokyo, Docket ending 35, the case of Aizen Sousuke versus Momo Hinamori, volume one.” And so it goes, with Gin following along the lines and getting maybe two pages in before he notices Aizen still standing.

Taking only a second to pause with an eyebrow raised Gin just shrugs and continues reading. “--having been duly sworn, testified, as follows, direct examination by Ukitake Juushiro.” He yawns under his breath and in that time between his mouth opening and closing Aizen is standing beside him, now leaning on the back of Gin’s chair and swiveling it to face him directly. Mildly pissed but still unwavering even as Aizen leers at him, Gin situates himself. “Question: please state your full name for the record? Answer: Aizen Sousuke. Question: Were you born here in Tokyo?”

The apathy in his voice drains to shock levels when Aizen lowers himself to one knee and hooks his fingers between his slacks and shirt, nosing at the zipper with breath that was way too hot. _The devil himself_ , Gin thinks. He’ll match him tooth and nail. “Answer: Yes, in Setagaya.”

Gin lets his legs fall open, nonchalant in the action, and shakes the paper out. “Question: How old are you at this time? Answer: Thirty-two.” _Thirty-two_? Gin wants to kill him for looking that good while being six years his elder. Aizen just shrugs at Gin’s scowl, undoing his button and zipper all the while and slowing enveloping the shape of Gin’s cock under his palm.

“Question: Are you close with your own parents at all? Answer: No. Question: Do you have any siblings? Answer: No,” Aizen’s mouth is dangerously close to Gin’s now bare length, “Question: Could you tell us about your education background?” As one should expect from Aizen by now (but Gin never seems to learn his lesson, his conscience tuts), with no attention to boundaries in mind he swallows Gin’s cock whole in one quick hot slide until his nose is pressed firmly under Gin’s navel. With one hand on each of Gin’s thighs, Aizen spreads them wide, wider, for no particular reason other than to shove against Gin’s limits, until the muscles start to hurt and Gin’s fingers are curled into claws. “ Answer: I finished my bachelor's in three and a half years and went back for a master's here in Tokyo.”

Aizen doesn’t even move, just keeps Gin halfway down his throat and swallows once. Luckily Gin catches the hitch in his voice before Aizen can hear. “Question: In order to understand better the current issues at hand, can you explain to us the dynamics in the relationship between you and your wife, Hinamori-san? Answer: Hinamori-kun, if you may.” When Gin mentions her name Aizen tilts his head back up in such a dizzying stroke that Gin feels his feet skidding the floor as he tries to keep his voice in line. “Question: Yes, between you and Hinamori-kun.”

He does it again and Gin almost pulls him off. Almost. He's doing it on purpose; Gin can't let him win.

“Answer: If by that you mean financial then I can’t deny that I have asserted a certain amount of control over property and residential assets,” _Rich boy doesn’t like to share_ , Gin snarls. Aizen, ever vigilant, notices Gin’s sudden resistance and pulls him down by the belt loops until his ass hangs off the chair. Gin narrowly remembers grabbing his phone before sliding downward, and it’s a good thing he does because the _things_ Aizen is doing with his tongue to Gin’s cock is making him lose his voice. “How-- ever I can assure you that each of these meetings have been sat in by Hinamori-kun herself-- and were brought forth to the proper advisers.”

The papers start to shake in his hand. Aizen pops up long enough to whisper, “Speak up,” in a voice that’s so liquid and cold Gin’s toes curl in his shoes and the paper crumples in his grip.

Louder this time, “Question: Has Hinamori-kun ever voiced her doubts or opinions on these decisions--” One of Aizen’s hands crawls up Gin’s ribs, warm and creeping, over his shirt until Gin’s tie is wrapped in his fist. _Either he really likes ties or he really wants to kill me_ , Gin ponders and tilts his head up just in time for Aizen to pull the fabric tighter around his throat.

He tongues at the head of Gin’s dick, letting the fingers of his free hand play over the minute texture of veins on the underside before spitting on the tip and diving down in a single move, finishing with a swallow that practically punishes Gin. He almost drops the phone.

“A-Answer: Of course, and full consideration was taken with total respect.”

Gin takes not a split second to inhale with only a slight tremor, letting Aizen pop back up straight and situate Gin’s legs around him, his slacks now hanging off of one ankle and a shoe scattered… somewhere. “To help clarify my reasons, Hinamori-kun does not come from the same background as I do, so at the very least if I’m going to help my wife,” _This guy loves hearin’ himself talk_ , Gin’s annoyed at his own voice now, grin twitching and Aizen begins undoing his belt and pants, “I hope to maintain enough, if not more than, to help support her extended family as well should anything happen to us.”

Regret fills his stomach, fighting the dense arousal there (and ultimately losing) as Aizen folds his knees to his chest, pulls out a foil packet of lube and deposits the contents onto Gin’s bare asshole in such quick succession it makes him even dizzier. Gin clutches at his phone and the transcripts for dear life as Aizen lines his cock up properly and slides inside.

“‘Qu-question: What would have h-happened if you--”

“Don’t stutter,” Aizen relinquishes his hold on the tie, bracing himself on the arms of the chair and Gin’s ankles fall to rest naturally on Aizen’s biceps.

“--and Hinamori-kun had an argument--” Aizen rolls his hips, a shallow out and in motion, a test of the water before jumping in, that has shock running up Gin’s spine and cock and a sharp inhale, almost painful, catches in his throat, “--over these divisions?”

The next paragraph is so long-winded Gin feels the threat of losing this invisible game to Aizen constrict his throat. One bony ankle held in each hand, Aizen starts a slow rhythm, his belt buckle biting into the skin of Gin’s thighs. His persistence is driving Aizen up the wall, if anything at all is revealed by the way Aizen rolls his eyes even as the thick length of his cock is firmly seated inside of Gin’s ass.

“Answer: There were fairly few arguments on either side of the table, actually.”

“Give in,” Aizen demands in a rough whisper before Gin can even start on the next sentence and begins fucking him in earnest, unerring, folding Gin in on himself until he’s pressing one palm, papers and all, against Aizen’s chest just to get some room to _breathe_.

“The-- only times I remember any sort of argument coming about in regards to this-- these agreements is nothing more than what any average married couple would have.” Aizen switches his hands from Gin’s ankles to a more favorable position on the backs of his thighs, his thumbs in the perfect position to spread Gin’s ass and give him a better view of how nicely Gin takes his cock. He wishes he had his camera.

Aizen is certain victory is close when Gin’s eyebrows start furrowing and the trademark sneer is gone from his face. One thumb rubs the muscle stretched tight around his dick while the other resumes its prior tugging of Gin’s necktie, this time properly pulling the ends until it constricts around Gin’s throat.

“And I-- assume that you, next are-- going to--” It’s too much, Aizen’s hands are playing him like a card game and every roll of his hips has Gin’s body jolting, malleable with heat and arousal, “Ask Hinamori-kun, to, ah, _ah, fuck-- Aizen-san_ \--” The phone and papers forgotten, dropped to the floor, Gin clutches at Aizen’s shirt and jacket as the pressure around his neck becomes tighter and whatever noises try to make their way out only wind up as half-gasped syllables.

Aizen’s grip on Gin’s leg and tie goes white-knuckled as he continues rutting into Gin, hair slightly astray from the motions and his tongue darts over his teeth, under his lip at the view of a reddened, fucked-out Gin shuddering underneath him, cock still pulsing and emptying on his shirt. The feel of Gin’s tendons going taut, skin sweaty and sticky under his palm has him pulling the length of fabric until it strains and leaves marks against his fingers. He cums just as Gin’s eyes start to roll backward into his head, the whites almost disappearing under his curtain of translucent hair, and releases the tie, solidly dropping Gin into the chair.

Gin doesn’t stop shaking for a good half minute after Aizen withdraws.

As casually as one can with one’s half hard cock out, Aizen picks up Gin’s phone and pauses the recording, saving it.

“--quit foolin’ with my phone.”

Again, Aizen chooses to ignore that. With grace akin to a conductor, Aizen swipes over to Gin’s inbox and drops the recording in, sending it to his own phone. “We’ve accomplished a lot today, haven’t we? Now you have my phone number, and I have a new ringtone.”

The phone is dropped suddenly on to Gin’s chest, startling his heart rate back up. Already some of Aizen’s cum has started to leak its way down his legs and he wants Aizen to shut up for a second and let him think. “Didja really call me in so soon after lunch for a quickie?”

“It worked marvelously, I think.” Aizen’s smile is lecherous as his eyes drink in the sight of Gin touching a spot of cum on his stomach, apathetic after Aizen killed the afterglow.

“And the floor’s a mess, too.” Gin heaves himself to his feet and pulls as many tissue as he can out of the box on his desk, wincing as he reaches behind himself. “Throat’s sore as hell. Do you gotta beat me up to get off?”

“Do you have to complain this much?” Aizen scoffs, pulling out his own pack of tissues for use before tucking himself back in.

“Ain’t complainin’ when my job involves doin’ all the talking and kissin' ass and you go and smash my voicebox.” The grin has returned Gin’s face. “Nobody better ever hear that ringtone.”

“Don’t worry, that part was a joke; I mostly plan to listen to it by myself,” Gin knows better than to be relieved about that, rightfully so when Aizen retrieves his own phone, “or with you.” Pulling up the recording, he fast forwards the audio with a flick of his wrist right to the end and Gin’s ears reheat all over again.

“I get it, I get it,” he shoos Aizen back until the recording stops. “I was wrong. You’re not an idiot, you’re a sadist.”

“You’re wrong on multiple fronts but I’ll let you keep that assumption.” Talking to Aizen was like pulling teeth; Gin rolls his head back on his shoulders and gives a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, Gin, by the way.”

“Hm?” Gin cracks open an eye. “What is it.”

“I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it but we _do_ meet with my ex wife and her council the day after tomorrow. I like that shirt so you might want to clean it.”  


**Author's Note:**

> Other characters to appear in the next half. Thank you so much for reading.


End file.
